


cleanse the blood from our hands

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Past Character Death, Post-Season/Series 03B, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times when Lydia thinks she can see the blood on her hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cleanse the blood from our hands

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Prompt #80 - Stain at fullmoon_ficlet. When I heard _stain_ , the first thing I thought was like Macbeth, with the blood staining the hands so deep it doesn’t come out. My mind went naturally from there to these particular three characters and all they have been through in the first few seasons. So yeah. Anyway, as always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to get inside their heads.

There are times when Lydia thinks she can see the blood on her hands.

She scrubs them late at night after everyone is gone, when she can’t sleep and pale blue eyes burn out of the darkness. When she rolls over, seeking warmth beside her, feeling the empty hole left behind. She crawls from her bed, stumbles to the bathroom, turns on the water and waits for it to steam. Cold fingers burn beneath the scalding fall of water, and she rubs at her hand viciously, spilling soap into her palms and washing them clean.

_If only they were clean_.

#

She holds out her hands one day to show Stiles, nails tipped in chipped bruised purple paint. He turns them over, looking at the roughened palms, fingers lightly tracing the lifeline that inexplicably wraps around the outside edge of her hand. “There’s nothing here,” he murmurs, then lifts it to kiss her fingers. “The deaths aren’t your fault, Lydia.”

She doesn’t _cause_ them, she only _finds_ them.

She fails to rescue them.

She can’t predict death,; she can only scream when it happens. There is nothing she can do, and she carries their blood in her palms, dripping with guilt.

#

She would ask Derek but she sees ghosts in his eyes as well. She sees the way he checks his hands when he thinks no one is looking, the way he wiggles his fingers as if blood drips from each tip.

If she looks hard enough, she might see the spatter of his guilt against the wall.

“You couldn’t have saved them,” she says quietly, hand between his shoulder blades.

He flinches; she wonders which _them_ he thinks she means. “I could have changed things,” he replies quietly. “It’s _my fault_.”

She knows he won’t listen, so she says nothing.

#

The loft is hot, but Lydia shivers, naked. She stands within one of three intersecting and overlapping circles, edged along the far outer ring by mountain ash.

As if she can be contained by that.

Derek blinks twice at her from where he stands naked in his own ring, and Stiles is an awkward blushing pink in the center of the third ring.

“Scrub,” Stiles says, lifting a handful of sage by his feet. He gestures to each of them and they lift their own herbs and rub against skin.

Fragrant scent rises, and Lydia tries to make herself clean.

#

Stiles meets them at the middle, where three rings become one. He reaches out with both hands, and together they make a circle of their own, palms up. Lydia looks down; for the first time she sees no blood cradled in her palm.

Derek’s nostrils flare. He inhales roughly, lets air out slowly with a surprised huff.

“We come as we were born,” Stiles says quietly. “We cleanse our skin with the herb, and we inhale its scent to wash the stain from our soul. We join together here as innocent as our first days. We are once again whole.”

#

They lie upon the couch in a tangle of limbs, nudity nothing in the face of the euphoria of feeling clean once more. Lydia traces fingers over Derek’s skin, kisses a spot behind Stiles’s ear. There are no stains to mar them anymore.

“We needed that,” Derek murmurs, his mouth open and warm at the base of her neck.

“We did,” Stiles agrees with a happy sigh. His lips brush hers briefly before he tilts his head back and Derek does the same for him.

“Thank you.” Lydia curls against them with the purity of affection.

Together they begin again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com).


End file.
